


One In a Million

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:52:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3292787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playing with something I may try again--a magic system that definitely is not Harry Potter's magic. I know what I'm trying to get to--and I didn't manage to do it here. But it may prove to be a prelude. </p><p>Eventually I want to use this system to write a story about the magic that comes to you late, not when you're an eleven-year-old-kid. It didn't happen this time--though I did manage to sort out my system while having Sherlock in a very Sherlockian snit. But--</p><p>We shall see. This is John, and Sherlock, and envy, and magic systems, and changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One In a Million

It was a cold day in spring—wet and windy—and John had been chasing Sherlock all over London that day. Or it seemed like all over London. They’d rendezvoused at one of Lestrade’s crime sites early that morning—and something had happened. John wasn’t sure what, though. All he knew for sure was that ever since that morning, when Sherlock had pulled Lestrade aside, hectoring him for being “entirely too cheerful to be a Met detective” the younger man had been in an impossible mood. Sullen, sulky, impatient….

“Wait up, damn it,” he called, panting as he tried to keep up with long legs in overdrive. “Slow down, will you?”

“Speed up,” Sherlock snapped back.

“Good trick, that,” John said. “But according to you it’s not my talent.”

“”Definitely not.”

“Then slow down,” John said again—and, as he managed to pull up next to Sherlock, added, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“What are you thinking about? The murder?”

“I solved that before I left,” Sherlock growled. “I told Garvey to arrest the cousin with diabetes before we left.”

“Well,” John said. “Good, then. You could have told me, you know.”

“You could have worked it out yourself,” Sherlock snapped back. “The death was triggered with an allergen only the cousin could have known about, using an insulin hypodermic.”

“Mmmm. So…what are you thinking about, then?”

“Magic,” Sherlock growled.

John, only recently inducted into the mysterious world of the born magi, grunted. “Witches, right?” He glanced at Sherlock. “I still don’t have it down cold. But, then, you don’t like talking about it.”

“It’s not precisely difficult,” Sherlock snapped. “Simple classification system. Hardly rocket science.”

“Magi,” John said, prompting him. “That’s the right word, yeah?”

 “For the plural, yes. A collective term. Or in the singular, a magus, though we don’t often call people that, any more than we talk about people as homo sapiens.”

“Witches, right?”

“Witches and warlocks. Almost anyone can be a witch or a warlock. God. Even ordinary people can manage it if they really put out some effort,”

John, walking along beside him down the pavement at rush hour, marveled that Sherlock was so open in talking about it. People pushed in around them on all sides, and Sherlock trumpeted on, laying it out like a lecture at uni. “Shouldn’t you keep your voice down?” he asked, worried.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock snapped. “It’s end of day in London. Not that even that matters. Either you know already—in which case I’m not saying anything new—or you don’t know and never will—in which case I might as well be talking about a novel or a book or a new religious cult. No one cares, John. It’s just magic, after all.”

“Mmm,” John said, not completely convinced. But a look around told him no one was listening… at least, no one who cared. His curiosity got the better of him. “So. Witches and warlocks, just like Harry Potter.”

“Not like Harry Potter at all.” Sherlock gave him the hairy eyeball. “Really, John. Owls make terrible familiars and worse postmen. As for people conveniently manifesting talent on schedule at eleven years of age, just in time to begin secondary school? Don’t be an idiot if you can possibly help it.”

“So—magic just happens? Or not?”

Sherlock ducked around a broad man lumbering down the middle of the sidewalk—a supple, serpentine motion that set the skirts of the Belstaff swaying. “Oh, it always happens. It’s mainly a matter of when and how—and how much.” He looked both ways and cut across the street against the light. “Everyone’s got a bit of magic, but most people don’t have enough to use practically. Rather like intelligence,” he added, tartly. “Indeed, I’d consider them much of a muchness, myself.”

“Well, you would,” John said, grinning to himself. “Bet your talent’s something to do with brains, you.”

Sherlock huffed, and said, sullenly, “Actually, no. My talent is rather stupid. I’m good at finding things.”

“Like—I dunno. Like people’s lost and found? Aunt Mavis lost her engagement ring and all that?” John was amused.

Sherlock stalked along, frowning. “If you will. I prefer to concentrate on less physical manifestations. I find answers. I find logical pathways. I find connections between individual facts.”

“And also missing shoes and teenaged runaways?” The glare Sherlock gave John was delightful payment for a million Sherlockian slights and digs. He stomped down the sidewalk. John was willing to swear his friend was pouting. He grinned to himself. Score one for Team Watson! “So, ok. All kinds of talents. Can appear any time and all kinds of ways. And if you don’t have enough of it, you’re just—what?”

“Ordinary,” Sherlock said. “You’re just ordinary.”

Trust Sherlock to make ordinary sound so very bad.

“Watch it,” John said. “According to you I spent most of my life ordinary.”

Sherlock muttered something rude. John gave him a grumpy look…

The detective sighed, then. “Yes, well, all right. Yes. Your injury seems to have triggered something in you. Enough to see and sense the wider world of the talented. Enough to understand what you were witnessing when you encountered my work.” He walked on, then a bit more warily said, “Enough to become a channel.”

“For light,” John said, grinning. “A prism concentrating ideas, according to you.”

“Among other things.” Sherlock stopped at a coffee van, then, and ordered a mocha latte, then turned to his friend. “Black Americano, no sugar?”

“As always.”

Sherlock paid the van counterman, took the two cups, and handed one to John. He took a deep sip from the cup held between black-gloved fingers. “You see, even if you don’t observe…Not everyone can see. Not in the magical ‘spectrum.’” He flicked a glance over at the shorter man. “You realized there was more to Lestrade than met the eye, even if you couldn’t place it.”

“All said and done, ‘shapeshifter’ would not have been a likely guess,” John said.

“Quite. It’s a rare talent even among us.”

“The rarest, I think you told me,” John said. He watched the flow of humanity around them. It still amazed him that magic was real—and manifest in every single being, though as a doctor he was willing enough to concede life itself was, in some sense, a wonder…and as a soldier he’d admit it was a miracle, on occasion. Now that he’d made his own mid-life transition, he could see it, though, at least a bit. The glow of magic on every face, the sound of magic in every voice. He was so busy watching that river of arcane mystery wash past him it took him a moment to realize Sherlock hadn’t confirmed his statement. He looked over, and spotted the constipated look of annoyance that indicated Sherlock was holding back something. “What? It’s not the rarest?”

Sherlock frowned, brows drawing down fiercely. He sipped his drink.

“Oh, come on, Sherlock. You’re the one who started the lecture.”

“Fine. All right. It’s the rarest,” Sherlock snapped.

“But?”

“But nothing.”

“Sherlock, you’re holding back. What’s up? Shapeshifters are the rarest talents. ‘Anyone can be a witch or a wizard,’ you said, back when you explained about Greg. ‘Hardly anyone’s a shifter, though.’”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s true. Changing body shape—most people who have any of that talent only have enough for camouflage.”

“Like your brother blending in—passing as no one important, right? ‘A minor position in government.’ Or Moriarty being able to sort of pass himself off as anything.”

Sherlock scowled harder. “Mmmm.”

John frowned. “So…what? Greg’s a shifter—that’s what’s special, right?”

“Not just that he’s a shifter,” Sherlock grumbled. Then, reluctantly, he said, “Everyone’s got a bit of talent. Everyone’s a bit of a shifter, even. Most people aren’t able to do anything with it, really. A witch or a warlock has enough to fuzz their looks a bit, or pass.”

“Like Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s look was toxic. “Let’s leave my brother out of it. We were talking about Graham.”

“Greg.”

“Whatever. He’s an enchanter-level shifter. That’s something special.”

“That’s right,” John said, and finished off the last of the coffee, ditching the cup in a nearby trash bin. “I keep forgetting there are levels. I’m witch-level.”

“Warlock,” Sherlock corrected him, reflexively. “I assure you, you’ve got the wrong plumbing to be a witch.”

John sighed. “You do know that there’s an entire mob of pagans out in the world who’d argue with you?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Different sort of witchcraft entirely,” he said. “But, yes. You’re warlock level.” He studied his friend. He gave a sudden, wicked grin. “At least, you manage it on a good day.”

“Yeah, yeah. Finish up your coffee, genius. Meanwhile—what’s your point? Greg’s good.”

“Greg’s very good. To do a full change is far beyond warlock or sorcerer level…and there are almost no enchanter-level changers.”

John thought about it. “So. Rare talent—and highest level.”

Sherlock scowled. “Almost the highest level.” He gulped the last of the mocha latte, crumpled the cup, then stalked away, moving far too fast. John swore under his breath and loped after the other man.

John, racing along behind, reviewed what he knew. Magi was the term for all magic users. Witches and warlocks were almost anyone with enough talent to actually use. Sorcerers were good enough to use their skills professionally within the community of magi, rather like the difference between the person who puttered about the garden and an actual professional gardener or farmer. And an enchanter was way up there—more like a botanist or biologist compared to the farmer. Only it wasn’t just expertise, it was expertise and ability coupled. He couldn’t think of anything higher, though.

“What more is there? I mean—enchanter’s big-time, right? Enough power to light up Cardiff single-handed, yeah?”

Sherlock huffed. “It’s not a matter of power—or not only power. It’s finesse. Sensitivity. The difference between being able to turn on an MP3 player and actually play my violin. Far more than power.” He scowled. “If it were just power, I could…” He stopped, then, stomping along in a snit—over nothing John could make out.

“So—what’s higher than enchanter?”

Sherlock glared sideways at him. “Oh, for God’s sake. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Hey, I didn’t grow up with this stuff like you and Mycroft did,” John protested. “I didn’t get my invite to the Wizarding World till I was middle-aged.”

“That’s hardly something to apologize for,” Sherlock snarled. “Late transformations are often exceptional:rare talents or rare capability. Or both.” He paused, and more quietly said, “As was your shift. You are a superb conductor of light. Of ideas. Exceptional. Older shifts often indicate the emergence of unusual or distinctive abilities.”

“So—it’s not just what your talent is, or how much you can use it? There’s something more?”

Sherlock huffed... “You had it, you know. ‘Wizard.’”

John shook his head, frustrated as usual by attempts to follow Sherlock’s minnow-darting thoughts. “What about wizards?”

“The final main classification. Wizards.”

“So they’re the top of the power heap?”

“It’s not just power.” Sherlock reiterated, annoyed. "Wizards are..." He shrugged, helpless. "It's more than power," he said, helplessly...angrily. "If it were just power, I'd be a wizard," he said, bitterly.

John walk along, brooding. No matter how he evaded being questioned, Sherlock was upset—and upset about something part and parcel of the world of the magi.

“You’re enchanter level, aren’t you?” he said, after a while.

Sherlock growled an affirmative.

“Not..wizard?”

Sherlock growled again.

“But—enchanter’s good, right?”

Sherlock huffed in a way that conveyed John was being unforgivably stupid.

“Yeah, Ok, right. Enchanter’s good. And you and Mycroft are both something or other…” Sherlock’s darted glare made John roll his eyes. “Ok, Ok, right, leave Mycroft out of this. You’re…right. Some kind of mentalist. Not a Lesser God—that’s Mycr…him. You’re…”

“True North.”

“That’s right—you’re a True North mentalist—you deduce your way in the right direction every time.”

Sherlock muttered, “Almost every time—there’s always something, though.” But he sounded a bit less fretful.

“So, Ok. So you’re not a wizard. But there can’t be many of them, right?”

“Vanishingly few,” Sherlock snarled, and set off at full speed again, raising his own wind as he stretched his long legs. John puffed behind.

“Sherlock?  Sherlock! Come on, it’s not like it’s any skin off your nose. So you’re second rank—so what? We all hit boundaries.”

“I do not accept boundaries,” Sherlock growled.

“You are what you are. Get over it. It’s not like you’re going to change status at this point,” John said, panting alongside.

“You did.”

“Yeah, but that’s..oh.Some people turn wizard late, then?”

“All people turn wizard late. It’s the one level no one achieves young. Just like no one achieves enchanter before they hit adulthood.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve, pulling him to a stop, then leaned over his own knees, gasping. “Ok. Yeah. Right…… Look, so you have time, right?” He glanced over at his friend. “Why does it matter so much all of a sudden?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Bollocks.”

Sherlock sniffed, and fished in his pockets, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, before standing there smoking it fretfully, in irked puffs and huffs.

John, slowly managing to get his breath back under control, frowned, trying to work it through.

“Greg’s not jumped a level, has he?” he asked, warily. “He’s old enough, yeah?”

“Yes, he is, and no, he hasn’t,” Sherlock said. “Leave it, John.”

John, instead, played things through. The rendezvous that morning. The crime scene. Sherlock swanning around putting people in their place. Greg, mind oddly out of focus, sipping a cup of coffee and grinning vaguely, until Sherlock snapped and pulled him aside. The two of them muttering together.

John frowned, trying to focus. Sherlock always said he saw, but didn’t observe. It was times like this he knew Sherlock was right. He couldn’t make it focus for the longest time.

The two men had leaned together, muttering. Lestrade had been protesting, weakly, and with a goofy sort of smile the whole time, as though Sherlock’s critique of his attention didn’t much matter. And then…something had happened. Sherlock had said something. Lestrade had said something in response…

It had been Sherlock the Bastard all the rest of the day.

“I don’t’ get it,” he said, at last. “If it’s not Greg….”

“It’s not,” Sherlock said, and stomped out the cigarette, and smiled a tight, artificial smile. “So. Are you ready to move on?”

“You know, you’re still young,” John said. “If it’s something that only happens when you’re older, you’ve got time.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock said. Then, suddenly weary, he said. “The odds are against it, I’m afraid.” And then he stalked away, leaving John wondering what the hell was eating him.

 

Garvey had been so happy telling about it, Sherlock thought, frowning later that night, alone at Baker Street.

“We were walking,” he’d said, grinning a big, dopey grin. “I was in fox form. Mycroft was taking his time, letting me explore the hedges. There was this baying, then, and the next thing we knew the pack was coming over the hill, and I thought I was a goner. And then he just lifted his umbrella like Moses parting the waters, and there was light, and wind, and then he was a dragon with a staff. I swear it. Never seen anything like it. A changer-wizard. Never thought I’d see the day.” He’d sighed. “The hounds were gone before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ And….” He smiled again, this time soft and quiet and so intense Sherlock wanted to gag…not that he didn’t feel sick already. “He went fox for me, and we ran the hills for hours.”

Sherlock had looked at him, horrified, and jealous beyond words. “Mycroft. My brother? A wizard?”

Gantry had smiled that stupid smile, and nodded. “Yeah. I should have guessed. He’s—special, yeah? But, yeah. He crossed over. For me. To save me.” The wonder of it all shone in his eyes.

“Mycroft. A shifter-wizard…” Sherlock had felt it like ice in his belly.

“Yeah.”

That was when Sherlock spat out the identity of the criminal—and left, dragging John with him.

Mycroft was a wizard….

The odds were less than one in a million of anyone making that transition—much less as a shifter.

And the tendency, unlike mentalism, didn’t run in families.

Sherlock scowled and struggled, because somehow, someway, he knew he had to beat the odds….

If Mycroft was a wizard, Sherlock would be, too…and so there!


End file.
